No Stereo - - No T.V.
No sound of kettle set for tea
Silence --save for rustle
Of the evening paper
SILENCE Charged silence
While love hovers - helpless
In the wings
He succumbs to slumber
Quietly she covers him
With a blanket
And
A mantle of love
THE FRY COOK

Maybe the toast is a little burned
The yoke of the egg is hard
The bacon a bit over crisp
The potatoes kind of charred
The coffee so strong, t'will float and egg
And cold as winter sun
My mother's saying I recall
If its burned, its bound to be done
The sink in the kitchen can hold no more
The floor is a fright to see
But I can't complain about the cook
When the bloody cook is me